Bellwether

February 23, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Every day, my mail box has a smattering of the notices. I’m being followed. Again. And, then again.

I glance at the messages and click the button to relegate them to their proper domain. Twitter.

I don’t understand Twitter. I tweet a message and hope it will be noticed by my followers. It rarely is. On those rare occasions when someone likes a tweet or perhaps even retweets it, the result is short-lived. If they’re actually following, they’re not following far.

I’ve finally figured out my problem—I’m not an influencer. I didn’t realize until just a few days ago that I needed—or even wanted—to be. Now I want it so badly I can almost taste it.

Influencer. The description often follows the twitter handle—the name by which one is known in that strange social universe. I’m not sure how one gains the title, but I want it. The title carries weight; it has gravitas.

I don’t have gravitas.

I want to be an influencer. Followers would actually follow. People would value my input. My opinions would matter. I could make a difference.

Alas. Influencer is not in my resumé. Not on Twitter, anyway.

But, I’m wondering tonight—am I an influencer already? Maybe the Twitter universe isn’t the only place that matters.

I came across a poem the other day which used a word I thought I didn’t know. The poem spoke of a flock of sheep following one specific sheep home to where food and shelter lay waiting. It called that one sheep a wether.

A wether? What’s that? I searched my memory. Wait! No, it couldn’t be. I’ve heard of a bellwether. I wonder if it has anything to do with that?

Sure enough, the wether is a neutered sheep, usually an older one, that the shepherd trusts to lead the other sheep. Out to the fields where sweet pasture is to be found—then, back home again to safety and rest. The bell goes around its neck to let the shepherd find the flock any time they are on the move. Bell—wether.

Ah. The light comes on. A bellwether is an influencer. An influencer.

I want to be a bellwether.

But—and there is always a but—I’m wondering about a couple of little issues. Well, just one actually. And, of necessity, this part of the discussion may be a little earthy, perhaps even crude. It must be.

You see, the wether is neutered. Always. A high price, one might think, for the privilege of leading the flock with a bell around one’s neck. The fact is, the shepherd will not trust a ram with the flock. Rams tend to be a bit self-centered, intent on doing what male sheep do.

Leaving for the moment, the earthy part of this discussion, one might wonder how it enters into the conversation at all. We’re not, after all, going to be physically, nor even emotionally, neutered in our quest to be leaders or influencers.

What is the point?

Simply put, in order to lead, to influence, without doing so in a self-serving and self-aggrandizing way, we will have to make a conscious decision to fulfill the role of the bellwether.

In our case, there can be no consideration of taking advantage of those who follow or are influenced. We don’t get to personally advance our station or reputation as we serve.

Let this mind be in you then, which was in your Shepherd, who gave up His right to the green pastures of His Father’s land, to come and be one of you, going so far as to be slaughtered in your place. (Philippians 2:5-8) Sorry, the words are a little mangled, but you will see the meaning is nearly unchanged.

Our Savior, the Shepherd we follow, specifically and with purpose, gave up His claim to all rights and privileges so that He might lead us into His sheepfold.

How do we dare attempt to influence His people with any less assurance of selfless intent?

How could we even think that any person who is led by our influence might be called our follower, and not His?

If I want to influence, if I want to lead for Him, it will be on His terms.

Not mine.

We don’t like to talk about this. Our service requires the end to our self-centered plans, our platforms, our brands.

And the Shepherd said, If any man wants to be my follower, he will deny himself, taking up his own cross daily, and actually follow me. (Luke 9:23)

Whoa! I have to wear the bell. And, I have to fulfill my calling with no intent on my part to benefit from it.

It is what He did.

I think I might be willing to wear the bell for awhile.

Influencer?

Bellwether?

Perhaps someday.

Meanwhile, we all still follow the Shepherd—and He still leads us to good places.

Time to head for green pastures—maybe even some still waters.

You’re coming too, aren’t you?

My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.
(John 10:27 ~ ASV)

Every one comes between men’s souls and God, either as a brick wall or as a bridge. Either you are leading men to God or you are driving them away.
(Canon Lindsey Dewar DD ~ Scottish Rector)

The Instrument

February 19, 2016February 19, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I am the instrument.

I’m trying to remember the first time I heard the words. It must have been in high school, muttered by a friend in the choir as he prepared for a contest. One never knows what tools will come into play when the self image needs a boost.

I’ve heard the words a few times since.

Invariably, they come from a vocalist, to whom the words give evidence there is no additional accoutrement necessary to accomplish his or her artistry. Somehow, even though I’m sure no such thing is intended, it seems—almost—a mantra, calculated to cause jealousy in the heart of any lowly instrumentalist within listening distance.

Oh, if only I didn’t need this stupid guitar (or horn, or piano, or…) to make my music.

I wonder—do vocal teachers make this a part of their curriculum, a required piece of information which all students must practice saying daily, much as they practice their scales or vocalises?

Have you said the words today, choir? Say it with me, “I am the instrument!”

Ah, I’ve got your attention now, don’t I?

Finally. He’s going to write something controversial.

Now we’ll get some angry comments, won’t we?

I hate to disappoint, but this little essay was opened with the introduction of that catch phrase merely to make a point. The point is fairly simple:

I am the instrument.

Yes, I know. We’ve covered that.

But, have we?

There is more to be said. The words don’t apply only to vocalists. They’re not even exclusive to musicians.

Even if you can’t tell a C chord from a rip cord, you are an instrument. Even if you hate every genre of music known to man, you are an instrument.

You are an instrument.

I have worked in the music business all of my adult life, and I’ve listened to a fair number of musicians. Maybe more than a fair number.

One customer suggested to me the other day, after hearing an amazing guitarist in my music store, that I was fortunate to be able to hear so many accomplished musicians come and go.

He is right.

But then, there is the flip-side of that coin.

As often as I hear the talented and disciplined musicians, I have to endure those who only think they are good. The cacophony is horrific at times. It is all I can do to keep from clapping my hands over my ears. It has been true of both instrumentalists and vocalists.

Did you know that an instrument is only as good as the one playing it? Beautiful music or ghastly noise can come from the same instrument, depending on who is manipulating the equipment.

I have heard cheaply made, even defective, instruments played beautifully—beyond what one would believe are its capabilities.

I have heard the shrieks, almost of pain, from some of the finest and most valuable instruments imaginable being manipulated by untalented hands.

Hmmm. Perhaps there is more to this than meets the eye—or ear.

In an earlier era, the folk singer Bob Dylan reminded us of the not-so-subtle truth beginning to peek through in our conversation here. He croaked the words (in an almost tuneful way)—Gotta Serve Somebody. His mumbled lyrics echoed the words of the Teacher, who made it clear that no one could serve two different masters. (Luke 16:13)

One way or the other, we will serve.

The Apostle suggested that we are better off if we don’t loan ourselves out for evil purposes. (Romans 6:13) The result of that collaboration can only be ugliness, raw and angry. It’s not the stuff of harmony and spectacular beauty.

The Master Musician has the talent to make the most insignificant of instruments create the most exquisite harmonies ever heard. But, unlike the inanimate instruments we employ on whatever whim takes us, His instruments get to choose who will take them up.

We choose.

It’s not about arrogance—only the finest instruments being held in the hands of the Master—but about humility. Frail and battered, out-of-tune and muffled—all can make glorious music in His hands.

We choose.

I want my choice to be a wise one.

You see, I love beautiful music—sweet music—music that touches the heart.

That kind of music only comes from the hands of a Virtuoso.

I will be held by Him.

I am the instrument.

But the Master comes,
And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the touch of the Master’s Hand.
(from The Old Violin ~ Myra Brooks Welch ~ American poet ~ 1877-1959)

It’s easy to play any musical instrument: all you have to do is touch the right key at the right time and the instrument will play itself.
(Johann Sebastian Bach ~ German composer ~ 1685-1750)

Tip-toeing and Holding My Breath

February 17, 2016February 17, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 7 Comments

The house is old and the floor creaks.

Since I was old enough to notice such things, I’ve not lived in any other kind of house. The sneaky kid I was at seven years of age learned where the noisy spots were. When one was stealthily slipping out at nap time, that information was key in avoiding detection by lightly sleeping parents.

In much the same way, the sneaky grown-up I am at nearly sixty years of age has learned where the noisy spots are in my current house, as well. That information is key in maneuvering through the downstairs rooms quietly when the Lovely Lady is sleeping upstairs. This is not so much because I want to escape detection, as it is that I don’t want to disturb her rest.

I have a suspicion that I am not any more successful at it in these later years than I was as a child. Still, an attempt must be made. If one is to wander the house late at night, it won’t do to have the other inhabitants lose sleep because of it.

In all my years of living in creaky old houses, I’ve never encountered a ghost. Oh, the floorboards pop on their own sometimes, and there are unexplained noises in the night. Somehow, I think we can eliminate ghosts from the causes there. No shimmering essence has ever brushed past me on the way down a hallway, and certainly, I’ve never heard the clank of chains.

But, in my head? That’s a different story. My head is rife with ghosts. Some of them are as kind and benevolent as one could wish. A few are not remotely like that—all screams and anger. Still others, I barely recognize—long forgotten memories from the dim past.

Tonight, I’m sneaking around on the creaky old floors in my head, in much the same way as I do in the house. It is an equally vain attempt at not awakening the ghosts who are usually resting there.

Somehow, being ill has that effect on my thoughts. Perhaps it’s the not-so-subtle reminders of my mortality—the lack of breath, the pain in my joints, the sleepless nights—that lead to the tiptoe walk though the past.

So I said to him——I said——that’ll never go through the door.

My grandfather died the year I graduated from high school, but still I hear his voice, telling another of his stories. Always—always, they were punctuated with spaces. They were spaces in which he caught his breath.

When he walked from the front porch to the kitchen, he always stopped at the desk behind his easy chair. Every time. Leaning with his big hands on the edge of the desktop, he breathed deep, his powerful chest muscles expelling the bad air and drawing in good.

As I tried to talk with the Lovely Lady today and gasped for air, mid-sentence, I heard his voice in my head. Then again, I walked from the den to front door and had to stop and lean on the buffet for a moment and I saw the old man standing there at the desk.

Experience tells me I will breathe freely again very soon. But, these moments, these brief seasons of walking through the old, creaky house remind me of folks who’ve gone before—people I have loved and who have loved me.

They remind me of other things, as well.

My grandfather, he of the interrupted sentences, was a storyteller. He loved a good story. More than that, he loved being surrounded by people who listened to the stories he told. The gaps for breathing, at first an annoyance to both the teller and the listener, soon became room for thought and reason for suspense. A good storyteller uses the tools with which he is provided.

Grandpa was a good storyteller. Health impediment or not, he was going to tell his stories.

The thing is, I’m a storyteller too. You might say, it’s in my blood. Kind of like the lung issues. You see, genetics plays a part in my pulmonary problems. From my grandfather to my son, the males in my family have experienced similar problems of varying degrees. Without a say in the inheritance, we have each passed down the frailty to the succeeding generation.

May I talk about the storytelling for a moment? I promise to be nearly succinct. (Scroll down the page to see if I’m being truthful—I’ll wait.) The reader will have to be the judge of whether the time is well spent.

Did you know our Creator commanded us to be storytellers? And, He expected us to pass the love of telling stories down through the generations? His instructions—oddly enough, passed through another storyteller—were clear.

Parents tell your children. Tell them in your home, as you’re hiking on a trail, and when you’re in the shopping centers. Through all the ages, tell them. Give them reason to believe and to trust in a God who provides and protects. (Deuteronomy 11:18-20)

The testimony of previous generations is a bridge over which we cross the raging floods of cultural deception and shifting doctrine. If we fail to provide those bridges for our children, our progeny will be washed away in the roiling currents and howling rapids.

Tell the stories! Use words that are accurate and attractive. Put them to music, rhyme the syllables, and give them rhythm. Paint them on a canvas, or carve them in stone.

Tell the stories!

The Lovely Lady—my favorite walking companion—and I wandered along an abandoned roadbed just a few days hence, as my current bout with my thorn in the flesh began. We had a goal in mind, a century-old bridge, now abandoned, but still standing. It has not carried traffic for a number of years.

A monument to the past, the framework stands. There is even a roadway across, but a few steps onto it and one soon realizes that it will never support the weight of a vehicle again.

A monument—nothing more.

Bridges are meant to be more than monuments. Properly maintained and kept, they smoothly move traffic from the place left behind to the destination. Abandoned, they serve no purpose, but rust and rot into the landscape, forcing the traveler to choose a different route or be carried away in the flood.

I will build bridges.

With my last breath, I will tell the stories.

As my companion and I wandered, almost sadly, away from the beautiful old span, I realized that my faulty lungs would make the half-mile trek back to the road difficult and wondered about the wisdom of making the trip.

I needn’t have worried. Companions are made to help each other on the road.

We don’t walk the road alone—don’t build the bridges alone—don’t cross them alone.

Surrounded by a great cloud of storytellers, we press on.

To our last breath.

Tell the Story.

Do you see what this means—all these pioneers who blazed the way, all these veterans cheering us on? It means we’d better get on with it. Strip down, start running—and never quit!
(Hebrews 12:1,2 ~ The Message)

For in Calormen, story-telling (whether the stories are true or made up) is a thing you’re taught, just as English boys and girls are taught essay-writing. The difference is that people want to hear the stories, whereas I never heard of anyone who wanted to read the essays.
(from A Horse and His Boy ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)

Because—Love

February 13, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Flowers for my heart with tender words
And a gentle touch that says so much
This is how I’ve heard that love should always be.*

Valentine’s Day.

Again, the commercialized and cloyingly cute messages are filling the in-boxes, mail boxes, and trash boxes across the country. More flowers, candy, and cheaply-made cards will be purchased than at any other time of year.

All to express a love that never was and never will be.

Love, that is. It will never be love.

Love isn’t flowers, isn’t a close embrace, isn’t sweet nothings whispered into an ear as you dance in the dark. And, it certainly isn’t the thousand dollar diamond necklace slipped around the throat of the picture-perfect beauty queen primping in the mirror before slinking out to a romantic dinner for two.

Our culture lies.

It lies every time an ad suggests all you need to keep your mate’s love is some pretty new bauble. It lies with each new revelation of ways to keep love fresh in some exotic destination or with an amazing new scent.

I want some new images to exemplify love.

How about a toilet seat? Either up or down will do. Love is him, putting it down for her. It’s her, ignoring the fact that it never gets put down.

Perhaps it could be black olives. He loves them, so she includes them in her recipes. She hates them, so he removes them from the frozen pizza before it goes in the oven.

The list could go on, including not a single item that Hallmark could market. The old toothbrush he used to clean up that ugly old vase that she bought at the second-hand store. The spool of thread she emptied to mend his favorite old work coveralls. The ice scraper he uses on frosty mornings, so she doesn’t have to stand out in the cold and do it herself.

In recent years, I have found some new items that illustrate love. You don’t want to hear about them. They are uncouth and will make you say the word gross as you see them in print.

And that’s a shame. Because, you see, the other lie that our culture tells is that your mate will always be attractive and will always be healthy.

He won’t. She won’t.

The bedpan and the urinal spring to mind. Bodily functions become the concern of the one who loves. Embarrassment and squeamishness are abandoned as love does, not what it wishes, but what it must.

Not so uncouth, but still not an attractive thought, the fork and spoon push their way into the symbolism, as one mate must feed another. The memory of feeding the cake to each other at the wedding comes back with a rush, and we realize that it is a promise we will keep.

I believe the one item I would chose to symbolize love most is nothing more than a simple handkerchief.

These cloth relics of the past have fallen out of fashion—replaced by the paper tissues we use and crumple into the trash by the thousands, but I like to have one in my back pocket. I would be lost without it.

With the handkerchief we dry the tears of children, and yes, wipe their noses too. I mop my forehead when the perspiration beads and threatens to run down my face. But, all through my life the one thing I have used that square bit of cloth for, more than any other use, has been to wipe away the tears that have come.

When puppy dogs died suddenly, the tears from the children’s eyes were soaked up; those from my own, as well. When the frustrations of financial want were too much, the handkerchief once again dabbed away the tears of fear for the future.

I have seen the tears of spouses as they turned away from the hospital bed their lover lay upon, perhaps for the last time. Other tears have been wiped away as elderly parents departed from this world to a better place; they were wiped away as conversations led to the realization that mental faculties were failing.

Tears fall. Sometimes, they are tears of happiness. More often as life progresses, they are tears of worry and of sorrow, but always, they are tears of love.

Tears fall. And we wipe them away. For each other.

And, there’s nothing cheap about that.

You can keep your cheap paper valentines. You can keep your sugary-sweet chocolates (well, maybe just one). You can even keep your diamonds and jewels. They’re cheap too, in a way.

Tears fall. And we stay.

Because—love.

Life is like an onion; you peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep.
(Carl Sandburg ~ American writer/poet ~ 1878-1967)

He will wipe every tear from their eyes.
(Revelation 21:4 ~ NIV)

* from How Love Should Be by Jeremy Michael Lubbock ~ American singer/songwriter

Grace and the Wolf

February 12, 2016February 12, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My morning at the music store was all planned out.

I always come in an hour ahead of time to get an early start. Product to be sent to customers has to be pulled and moved to the shipping room. Emails must be checked and answered. Repaired items needing to be picked up are checked again and moved to the proper section.

When the doors are unlocked, the objects to be worked with are no longer inanimate, but human. Somehow, planning goes out the window. Phone calls are answered, problems addressed, and merchandise is sold.

Still, I hadn’t counted on the Peter and the Wolf kids. Mom wondered if I would mind too very much giving them a demonstration of the musical instruments they had heard in the orchestral composition by Mr. Prokofiev.

She had a set of picture cards, but the children wanted to see the real instruments if they could, please. That is, if you don’t mind.

I didn’t mind. I’m a good guy who loves helping children.

The first card showed a bassoon. We dragged one out of the back room and assembled it, taking care to show the two tykes the double reed which gives the instrument its distinctive tone. The little girl was surprised to see that the strange instrument was much taller than she.

The next card showed an image of an oboe, so an oboe came out of its case and the smaller pieces were shoved together to make an instrument a little smaller than a clarinet. Again, the double reed made an appearance.

As each instrument came into view, the character in the musical story was named. The bassoon had been the low, naggy sound of a fussing grandfather, the oboe—Peter’s quacky duck.

One by one, we located the characters the children had met in the recording. The pretty silver flute was the little bird, and the clarinet, long, black, and sinister, was the cat that stalked the bird. The drums, such as we could find—I’m sorry ma’am; we don’t sell many timpani—were the hunters, come to help Peter in his time of need.

Of course, we had to find as many of the stringed instruments as we could, making do without a double bass viol. Peter was represented in the musical tale by the entire violin family, regardless of size.

But, we forgot one, didn’t we? Oh yes! The French horn. What shall we say about the horn?

I’m a horn player. It was a proud moment. Surely the children would be impressed.

I’ve played it nearly all my life.

The little girl, friendly and twinkly for most of the tour of instruments, stared at me, her mouth open and eyes wide. Disbelief was written all over her face.

You’re the wolf?

Why, yes. No!

Wait a minute! I’m not the wolf! I just play the instrument that represents him in the symphony. I’m not really the wolf.

The children are gone. That was hours ago.

I’m still a little shaken.

Am I the wolf?

Am I?

Thoughts swirl in my head. The horn is forgotten for the time being, but other things are not. Memories of acts committed, never to be undone, are mixed with the cacophony of voices that have filled my ears.

All have sinned—there is not one righteous person—whoever breaks one law is guilty of breaking all—those who live like this will not see God. (Romans 3:23, Ecclesiastes 7:20, James 2:10, Galatians 5:19-21)

There are times—perhaps only for a moment, but often for days—when the memories of what I have been and done haunt my waking hours. They even stretch my waking hours, leaving me restless in my bed, denying sleep.

Always, finally, the reality of grace hits home. Always.

Always, finally, the reality of grace hits home. Always. Share on X

Do the voices not speak truthfully, then? Am I not a sinful man?

They do. I am.

I was the wolf. Was.

And, just like the wolf in Peter’s tale, I deserved death but found instead life.

While I was still doing damage to Him, grace was offered. To an enemy, He offered comfort and safety. (Romans 5:8)

Grace is stronger than the wolf.

I am not who I was.

I’ll play my horn again in the morning. I know I’ll smile as I remember my little friend, mouth agape and eyes opened wide.

No, my dear. I am not the wolf.

Not anymore.

Grace is stronger.

Such were some of you; but you were washed, but you were sanctified, but you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and in the Spirit of our God.
(1 Corinthians 6:11 ~ NASB ~ Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation)

I have many regrets, and I’m sure everyone does. The stupid things you do, you regret if you have any sense, and if you don’t regret them, maybe you’re stupid.
(Katharine Hepburn ~ American actress ~ 1907-2003)

Light Shines

February 10, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

They came to take him to Radiology today. With a gurney.

He slid his legs over the side of his hospital bed and his feet hit the floor.

“No, you stay in bed. We’ll move you over with the sheet.” The aide was insistent, almost worried.

The slight man glanced at the two staffers and acquiesced, lying back down and waiting for them to bring the bed to the same level as the gurney. Then he went quietly with them down into the bowels of the huge hospital, to have his hip X-rayed, while his wife waited for him in his room.

I visited him this evening in his hospital room. He is unhappy. Who wouldn’t be? Two weeks away from home and he is not much better. At least his disease has a name. Congestive heart failure.

He is unhappy.

Yet, as he sits, face on his hands, he tells me the story of his visit to the radiology department. His body shakes as he talks for a minute and then stops to catch his breath. I wonder if he is so unhappy that he is crying. Then he gets to the part about the hip X-ray, and I realize that he is laughing.

He tells about his visit with the coronary specialist later this afternoon, in which he asked the doctor about the hip X-ray.

“Hip X-ray?” The doctor is confused.

The nurse, at his side, is not. Abruptly, she runs from the room and makes immediate arrangements for the man down the hall, who has been limping strangely, to be taken to Radiology for his hip X-rays.

The man with his face in his hands laughs outright.

“Well, at least I didn’t have to stay all day in this room and be bored.”

With a quip about being glad the trip wasn’t to get a leg amputated, he quiets down again and the reality of his situation intrudes into the room once more.

I think he will laugh again. There will be other bright spots.

A friend posted a picture online the other day. The sunset was beautiful, but not all that spectacular. I wondered what was special about this particular sunset. It wasn’t until I read the words under the photo that I saw how spectacular it really was.

The hashtagged comment was: #neverhadsunsetsbeforethewildfires.

A couple of years ago, she and her family lost their home and everything else—all their recorded memories, all their photos, everything—in a wildfire. They are slowly rebuilding their lives from the ashes.

In the meantime, they are finding the bright spots. Trees cleared away by fire? Look for the sun lowering to the horizon in the west.

Light shines through.

You see, the thing about finding yourself in a dark place is this: You look for the bright spots.

And you find them.

As a child, I remember waking up in a dim bedroom and seeing the sunbeams streaming through the window. The dingy room was brighter in spots because of them.

But, if you sat and just gazed at the beams shooting their way in from the bright sun, you suddenly noticed something: Little tiny dust motes dancing in the light. They would twirl and twist, rising and falling with even the tiniest wind current, perhaps the slightest puff of your breath, or even a hand waving several feet away.

It is almost as if even the denizens of the dark room were happy for the sunlight, welcoming it in to chase away the shadows.

In spite of the darkness, we find light.

We laugh in the face of disease. We rejoice in the aftermath of loss. We move on from the dark places in which we find ourselves to walk in the light of day.

What’s that?

You’re still in the dark place?

Perhaps you could come a little nearer to the window. Even now, the beams are sliding in through the panes to welcome the dancers from the dark.

You don’t want to sit this one out.

The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.
(John 1:5 ~ NIV)

Now God be praised, that to believing souls gives light in darkness, comfort in despair.
(from Henry VI ~ William Shakespeare ~ English playwright ~ 1564-1616)

A Great Adventure—Still

February 9, 2016February 9, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I knew he was going to attempt to sell me something before he said a word. Well, before he said five words.

He shifted his leather valise (my first clue) from one hand to the other, as he reached out for mine.

I’m looking for Mister Phillips.

Why do they call me mister when they want something? My customers, even the teenagers, call me Paul. I like that; it feels like we’re on equal footing.

Mister Phillips, I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get right to the point. . .

The contents of the valise scattered about on my counter, the fellow began his pitch. I want it understood that this was not my first time at bat. When he offered a home run ball, I declined. I’d rather tap the bunt, thanks.

You see, the man is selling a dead product. Well—it’s nearly dead. He wants to sell me an ad for the telephone book.

A telephone book.

Remember when the phone book was the most important source of information available? For a hundred years, it was an indispensable tool for professionals from every walk of life.

The police department used it as much as the sales community. Delivery boys needed its information, as did churches and schools. No home or business would be without the local phone book.

That was true for the better part of a century.

No more.

The Internet has replaced the phone directory. Databases the likes of which would have been incomprehensible to the brains of mid-twentieth-century computer scientists are carried around in our shirt pockets.

Need a number? Touch one button.

Directions to an address? Watch the screen and listen to the computer-generated voice.

Buy a telephone directory ad? Not likely! Well, perhaps a small one. You never know. Some of my customers might still be stuck in the twentieth century.

It’s true. Old habits die hard. The Baby Boomer generation—of which I am a part—is made up of stubborn folks. For all the changes we have seen—or even been responsible for—there is a remnant of us who refuse to budge.

All around us, change is happening at the speed of light. Technology, societal norms, scientific discoveries, even medical treatments—all these and more are almost unrecognizable from two or three decades ago.

For those of us who are reaching that certain age, there is a propensity to simply shrug our shoulders and ignore all change. We can’t decide which is good and which is bad. And besides, who can figure out those strange new devices anyway?

I hear my Grandfather’s voice, even as I write. Grandpa was born in 1902, at the start of a new century. He watched the flying machines soar through the air. I can’t believe that his imagination didn’t, at some point in his life, take to the air as well. Still, you’d never know it to listen to the words.

If God had meant for men to fly, He would have given us wings!

He was an intelligent man. Not altogether unlike many I know around me today.

They’re the very same ones using phone books.

Oh. I’ve stepped on some toes here, haven’t I?

I’m not preaching; really, I’m not. I just know that we need to live in the world our Creator has given us, thriving in the time in which He placed us.

I want to be a steward, faithful to use the tools placed in my hands for the task I’ve been assigned.

The Apostle, intent on fulfilling his own commission, averred that he would become all things to all people if, in doing so, he could win at least some. (1 Corinthians 9:21-22)

I’m not sure the words but I was old will be an acceptable excuse when we reach our eternal home.

Our Creator has instilled in us a natural curiosity, a desire to learn, that burns in our core from the cradle to the grave. It is only through our sloth and love of ease that we divest ourselves of the ability to learn new things.

It hurts when I push the strings down.

The lady, a middle-aged grandmother, stood in front of me with the guitar she had purchased only days before. She was quitting. It was too hard.

It’s supposed to hurt. That’s how your fingers get toughened up, so you can play longer.

I could have been more sensitive in my explanation, but she needed the truth. Learning is hard. It always has been.

When the learning is complete, then comes the sense of accomplishment, the knowledge that we pushed on through the pain and finished our task.

It’s worth it.

One of my young friends wanted to show me his new skill the other day. He beckoned me out to the parking lot at the music store and, reaching behind the seat of his pickup truck, drew out a unicycle.

No, not the kind clowns ride in the parades. This was a powered unicycle. It did have only one wheel, but there was a powerful motor that drove the wheel while he stood with his feet on either side of it upon small metal platforms.

Zipping around the lot, between cars and then, zig-zagging in and out, around the flower pots on the sidewalk, he simply stood and let the single wheel beneath him carry him wherever he guided it. I was amazed.

I wanted to do it. He looked at this nearly sixty-year-old before him and shook his head adamantly.

No. I don’t think so. It took me awhile to get it figured out. I fell down. A lot.

As he stood there, I bent down to examine the contraption. It was battered and bent. I thought he had told me it was nearly new. I asked him about the damage.

That’s from all the times I fell down. Again and again. I got back on it every time. Totally worth it. Totally.

With that, my young friend stepped back on the death trap (funny how perception changes) and sped around the lot a time or two more before tossing it back in his truck. Then, waving goodbye to the jealous old man standing in front of his music store, he headed for home.

Did you get that? Totally worth it, he said. Every bruise, every skinned knee, even the sprained shoulder. Worth it.

The Lovely Lady has made it clear that no funds are available for a unicycle, nor will they be—ever. I get it.

Still, there is so much to do—so much to learn.

What a great adventure our Creator has placed before us!

You can keep using your phone book if you want.

I’m moving on ahead.

He’s got more.

Because, this is a very great adventure, and no danger seems to me so great as that of knowing when I get back to Narnia that I left a mystery behind me through fear.
(Reepicheep in Voyage of the Dawn Treader ~ C.S. Lewis ~ 1898-1963)

Do you not know that all the runners in a stadium compete, but only one receives the prize? So run to win.
(1 Corinthians 9:24 ~ NET)

Birds Have Nests

February 8, 2016February 8, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

All I need is a place to lay my head—and my old Martin guitar.

I’ve known of folk like him all my life. Granted, not all of them choose the life they live, as he has. The man speaking is dressed in clothes he obviously purchased from the Goodwill store. He probably even slept in them last night—in his car, it would appear.

He has no family to speak of. No children. No wife. There is no one who depends on him—except himself. He doesn’t want it any other way. He is satisfied with the way things are going.

I stood and thought one day recently, as I said goodbye once again to my footloose friend. What would make a man want to live like that?

I still have no answer.

Most of us want nests—homes to which we can retreat—safe places for our children and spouses. We want warmth and comfort, along with protection and safety. In our homes, we feel all these things.

Mothers-to-be—most of them—feel the nesting instinct. They want to clean and paint, and sometimes to add on a nursery. (Just ask any father-to-be.) Our Creator made them so, building the nesting instinct into their psyche.

In nesting, we find our first fulfillment as a parent. There will be many more satisfying moments in the years to come, but before they arrive, we first have the need to ensure our offspring will be safe. We want them to have the best chance to arrive in one piece to the age at which we can push them out—of the nest—to fly on their own. It is what we are made for.

And still, the question nags at me: Why would someone choose to live without a nest—a home?

As I contemplate the question, a scene wavers on the edge of my consciousness. I push it away. It is not what I want to consider.

The scene will not be ignored. Against my better judgment, in my mind’s eye, I let it play out.

A crowd of people is moving through a dry and dusty landscape. There is a lake nearby, and it is clear that many of the men are carrying their belongings, everything they own, on their backs. One of them doesn’t belong in the scene at all.

A well-dressed man—obviously a learned fellow—he is addressing the leader of the group. He makes the claim, with much bravado, but not much conviction, that he will follow the Teacher wherever He goes.

The Teacher replies, telling the religious man that, unlike the foxes (who have dens) and the birds (who have their nests), he had no place even to lay His head. (Matthew 8:18-20)

I don’t know if the man followed Him or not. but I wonder—I can’t help it—I wonder why there is no place for the Teacher to call home.

How did the Baby—whose mother wrapped Him gently and laid Him in a manger, whose earthly father taught him in the arts of carpentry, whose parents were so concerned about Him wandering off into the temple at the age of twelve—how did He turn into a man who had no place to sleep?

How is it that this Son of God is homeless?

The answer hits me like an avalanche and knocks me down, breathless.

He chose this!

Do you suppose He could not have had the finest palace if He had desired it? Do you think a life of ease was beyond His power?

There was nothing—no power on earth—that could have denied Him any comfort He wanted.

And, just as quickly as that, I have my answer. He chose. He chose to leave the comfort of His home and its protection so He could bring mankind to a place of protection and rest!

His invitation to the people of His day was that they come to Him, as chicks run to the mother hen and shelter under her wings, safe in the nest. (Luke 13:34)

They would not. It didn’t stop Him.

Do you see the picture? He left the nest to bring us to the nest!

It was always about gathering us to safety—always that we might be protected.

Even as He died in our place, the assurance was of a nest being prepared. If I go and prepare a place, I will bring you to safety there. (John 14:3)

He wandered, homeless, so we wouldn’t have to.

Why would we make any other choice? Why would we still wander, homeless?

It is safe in the nest.

I could use that reassurance today. Maybe you could too.

Time for rest.

Nestle down and abide.

Under His wings.

Under His wings, under His wings,
Who from His love can sever?
Under His wings my soul shall abide,
Safely abide forever.
(William Cushing ~American pastor/poet ~ 1823-1902)

It Rubs Off On Us

February 5, 2016February 5, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Be sure to bring an extra pair of coveralls tomorrow. We’re going to the wheel factory.

The electrician made the suggestion to his apprentice as they parked the service van and headed home for the night. The young man’s heart sank.

Wheel factory? Tomorrow? What a disaster!

He had hoped for a day of residential service calls instead. Those, he liked. They kept your brain active, trying to crack the mystery of where a certain circuit ran, or why the washing machine shocked the owner when she touched it.

He might even get to wait patiently by an outlet, watching a test meter as the electrician flipped breakers and clipped wires, trying to bring a dead circuit to life once again. That was simple, clean work which gave you a good feeling when you left the house with a satisfied customer waving from the doorway.

The wheel factory? There was nothing worse!

I’ll attempt to paint you a picture, shall I?

The factory looked like any other ordinary industrial facility. Stacks of iron wheels and brake drums stood round, strapped to pallets and awaiting their turn to be moved—the finished ones by semi-truck to the distant factories which had ordered them—the unprocessed ones by forklift into the plant nearby. There, they would be machined and drilled to the specifications which the tractor, automobile, and truck designers had determined.

Before the men headed in, our apprentice and his boss pulled on their coveralls and changed shoes. You’ll understand this a little better in a few moments. Walking toward the plant, with a tool belt on his waist and a fiberglass ladder over his shoulder, the full effect of the nightmare which was about to begin was still not clear, and the young apprentice thought, perhaps this won’t be so bad after all.

Ah! But, when the doorway was breached, and the vista of the huge building stretched out before him, the panic struck anew.

The first thing he noticed was the screech of the metal lathes pulsating and rising in pitch as each cut was made. The noise was not only deafening, but to his ears (he liked to think, sensitive musician’s ears) it was horrific, jarring him to the core. The din was almost painful—the perpetual squeal altering and dulling his other senses.

After the initial shock of the noise, he noticed the thick ever-present smog hanging in the air. Blue, oily smoke wafted up from every machine that cut and shaped and drilled, aided by the heat of the process and the liberal use of the viscous fluid to cool the cutting edges. The huge fans at the end of the building dragged the thickening atmosphere across the length of the entire building before pulling it, square foot by sooty square foot, from the building.

He shuddered to think what the air would be like in this horrible place if the fans were not functioning, but still it seemed they only sucked the nasty stuff in never-ending waves across anyone who was between the machines and the giant rotating fan blades. He would soon be breathing in that vile mixture…and the eerie place was only to get worse.

The plant maintenance man saw them come in and motioned them over. They followed him along rows of raw materials and machinery until he stopped beside one mammoth drill press. Pointing to the oily, slimy monster, he shouted over the shriek of the nearby lathes and the high-pitched whine of the drill presses;

“This one! It’s got to be rewired!”

With that, he was gone. As he disappeared into the maze of iron and machines, the apprentice looked down at his own hands. He would swear that he hadn’t touched anything, but they were black with grime already. He coughed with the stench of iron shavings mixed with oil and realized that his nightmare had already begun.

Hours later, when he and the master electrician picked up their tools and ladders and headed out to the blessed quiet and clean air of the world outside, they were both covered from head to toe with the filth. Their coveralls would take several cycles through the wash to come reasonably clean and they couldn’t wear their shoes anywhere until the soles were cleaned with de-greaser and solvents.

The young man coughed up black junk from his chest for hours. The headache would last longer than that.

Is the picture horrible enough for you? Is there a point to this horror story?

You know there is.

What I’d like to be able to do is to draw the parallel between the filthy factory and the dirty places in the world we can get into. We can’t rub shoulders with filthy people without some of it rubbing off on us. The transfer of polluted substances is almost instantaneous.

I’d like to be able to tell you that the moral of the story is that we should stay out of those places. I want to suggest that we should never associate with those dirty people and places.

What a simple solution! To avoid getting dirty, stay away from filthy locations and grimy humans.

I’d like to be able to tell you that, but I would be wrong. For too long though, it is just what we have done.

We don’t drink, smoke, or chew; and we don’t go with girls that do.

Our pride and our arrogance have led us to believe that if we can keep our clothes and our hands clean, nothing more is required of us.

We live upright and impeccable lives and think we have achieved the goal.

We couldn’t be further from the truth.

Several times in my writing, I’ve mentioned the hugs I get from some of those dirty people. My clothes stink until they are washed. A customer who walked in my store immediately after one such episode actually wrinkled up her nose as I waited on her.

Dirty rubs off on us. It sticks and leaves evidence.

The religious leaders in Jesus’ time thought so too, as they accused him of being a drunkard and a sinner. He spent His time with people who needed baths and who needed medicine and who needed a Priest.

The stench sticks to everyone in the vicinity.

Mother Teresa ministered among the diseased and poor of Calcutta, India for decades. I believe the love of Jesus shone through her life. I wonder, do you imagine this little woman smelled good? Do you think she was always spotless and clean? You don’t live and minister in the filth of one of the poorest, dirtiest cities in the world and stay clean and fresh.

Dirty rubs off on us.

Have you been in the vicinity of someone who is dirty recently? I’m including the spiritually dirty, as well as the physically unclean. It’s not necessarily a nice feeling, is it? There was residue left on you—on your person and on your soul—was there not?

Dirty rubs off on us.

But, here’s the other thing we need to know.

When we spend time with, and give of ourselves to, the kinds of people who need our attention—the poor, the lost ones, the souls who are wandering—we infect them too.

This infection, you can’t smell and you can’t see. But we are promised there is a payoff. Promised.

God says that, without fail, His Word achieves its purpose (Isaiah 55:10-11), and also that as we give, we receive. (Luke 6:38)

If we’re stingy and keep what we’ve been blessed with for ourselves, we’ll lose even that. (Luke 19:24)

Like the young electrical apprentice, we may hate the process. It will involve pain, and filth, and discomfort.

We’ll also have the uninhibited joy, as we walk away, of knowing that we’ve accomplished exactly what you went for.

The dirt—the stench—that ringing in our ears? They will go away, but the joy will remain.

Dirty does indeed, rub off on us.

But, the original cleanser still washes whiter than snow.

“Give, and you will receive. Your gift will return to you in full–pressed down, shaken together to make room for more, running over, and poured into your lap. The amount you give will determine the amount you get back.”
(Luke 6:38~NLT)

“If my baseball uniform doesn’t get dirty, I haven’t done anything in the baseball game.”
(Ricky Henderson~Former Major League Baseball left fielder)

Shaken Together, Running Over

February 4, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

I’ve told the story before. Stop me if you’ve already heard it.

It is the story of a Yankee spinster who left her family behind in Pennsylvania and made her way to the southern hills of Oklahoma and Arkansas, with a detour through Chicago.

I suppose the road to the hills actually was the detour. Chicago was in the master-plan. But, the road should have led from there to China instead of Oklahoma.

Oklahoma and Arkansas are a long way from China. When one is aiming for the Orient, the back roads of the central U.S. might seem like a disappointment.

Failure even.

Perhaps I should just tell the story. I’ll try to keep it short—or not. Probably not.

Miss Peggy was called to be a missionary to China. She just knew it. She even knew what to do about it. In Chicago, a little Bible school called Moody Bible Institute had been started about thirty years before by the great evangelist, Dwight L. Moody. They would give her the training she needed.

She started there. China would be the next stop.

Only it wasn’t.

Political unrest had already begun in that country, with the result being that no mission organization would allow a single woman to go there by herself. She didn’t know what to do. She was called to go to China. Called.

A young man in her class at the Bible Institute heard of her dilemma and asked to meet with her. In that fateful meeting, he explained that he had been called to minister to the rural communities in Northwest Arkansas and Eastern Oklahoma. But, having heard that she was being forced to abandon her plans, he wondered if there might not be another solution.

The mission boards were still sending single men to China. Perhaps, he could go in her place. There was one stipulation though. She would have to take his place in rural Oklahoma and Arkansas.

It wasn’t what she wanted, but it made sense. She agreed and headed for the hills when her classes at the institute were completed. For sixty years, she faithfully taught Bible classes to the children in rural schools throughout the region.

Sixty years. She was allowed to travel to the schools and given a classroom to teach children who wanted to learn Bible verses and listen to her stories. Flannelgraphs were manipulated, and mimeographed papers were handed out to the eager students. The ones who memorized the most Scripture verses were the envy of the other kids, because Miss Peggy awarded them little New Testaments of their very own.

Sixty years, she was faithful to her task. Can you imagine the number of children who heard the Gospel story from her lips. Can you imagine the spiritual legacy?

I said she was faithful for sixty years. And, so she was. But, for every one of those sixty years, she mourned for her beloved China and her calling.

She was called to China!

Because of her great love for the Chinese people, she made an effort to meet and befriend all of the Chinese folks who came within her reach over the years. To that end, she contacted the local university in our little town regularly to inquire of new students from that great country. They were happy to arrange for the sweet old lady to meet the newcomers, whenever there were any.

Sam and his wife had left China under a cloud, his father having been arrested for preaching the gospel in a land where it was forbidden. His father died in prison and there was a fear that Sam might suffer the same fate. So, they came to the United States under a student visa and made their way to this little town of ten thousand and the Christian university here.

Miss Peggy wasn’t long in befriending Sam and his family. When I say befriending, I mean they spent hours together, talking of China and the secret Church, along with many mealtimes spent discussing the Lord they all loved, and His great care for all His children.

By this time, Miss Peggy was nearly blind from the disease of macular degeneration, and had lost much of her hearing. Still, her love for China, and this Chinese family in particular, drove her to ignore any hardships caused by the additional activity.

It would be an understatement of huge proportion to say she was not prepared for what happened one Sunday afternoon after they had shared a meal at Sam’s house.

Somehow, as they sat drinking tea and relaxing, the discussion turned to his family in China and he took out the family Bible, written in Chinese. Reading the names from the front of the big book, he spoke with love and respect of several who had already gone to be with the Lord.

Suddenly, Miss Peggy jumped as if an electrical current had gone through her.

“Stop! Go back and read that again!”

Sam looked up with a quizzical expression, but did as he was bid. Reading the name and Scripture verse the person had inserted into the record on the page, he explained that this American missionary had been instrumental in bringing his father to faith in God and also had encouraged him to enter the ministry. Then he stopped speaking and looked at the little elderly lady again.

The look of shock on Miss Peggy’s face was almost comical. Mouth open and unseeing eyes like saucers, she raised her hands to her face and the tears began to fall.

It was the very man who had traded places with her! The very man. And here, right in front of her, were the products of that transaction.

As the impact of their discovery hit them, there were more folks than the old missionary crying. Imagine! Out of the millions of people in China—out of the multiple countries this family could have fled to—out of the thousands of schools they could have attended—they came to the one place they needed to be.

I can’t imagine a more fulfilling moment in the ninety-four years the dear saint lived on this earth. In that moment, she realized that her life’s ambition, the one thing she had ever desired more than anything else, had been achieved.

She had given it up to take a detour to the backwoods of Oklahoma and Arkansas. Sixty years, she had served faithfully, keeping a bargain she had made under duress. Thousands already, had benefited from her service. Now, in her last days on earth, she realized that her deepest desires had been fulfilled.

She was called to China!

Talk about a pay off!

And the Teacher told His followers, give and you will receive it back—more than your cup can hold—sifted and blended, it will run over into your lap and onto the floor. (Luke 6:38)

Life doesn’t always go the way we’ve planned. Oddly enough, it seldom goes the way we’ve planned.

The road leads to places we never dreamed of.

We walk it anyway.

The years take away our physical strength and abilities. We keep moving ahead.

The pay-off lies up there. Ahead. Beyond the hills, past the valleys, through the flooded streams.

And, after all the toil and hardship, we find that God gives good gifts.

Always.

Even after sixty years of waiting.

Winners never quit and quitters never win.
(Vince Lombardi ~ American football coach ~ 1913-1970)

Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him…Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.
(James 1: 12, 17 ~ NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips